Heir
by Chibi-Shibi
Summary: A story about the heir of the Malfoy family.


**For the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, Round 11 Chaser 3 of Pride of Portree**

**Main Prompt: A character never had any powers to begin with: squib!AU**

**Optional Prompts: (color) emerald green, (emotion) jealousy, (dialogue) "Sometimes even the wrong train takes us to the right station"**

**Word Count: 1148 (google docs)**

**TGS Care of Magical Creatures Class: Gryffin - write about someone feeling like an outcast**

**TGS Through the Universe: Atmosphere — (feeling) suffocation**

**TGS Ollivander's Wand Shop: Rougarou hair: Write about a Dark character.**

* * *

I feel so out of place compared to the others. They've all been taught in Muggle schools for a long time, and some of them have even been here for years before me. They have found their place. I...I was hoping to get my Hogwarts letter. My father was hoping I would too, and I know I let him down. I'm sorry for that, but that hardly matters now.

I cannot be like Altair. I cannot even be better than him, because he has magic and I...do not. I feel like I could never be a true Malfoy. That is all I can think about these days. How this school is not Hogwarts, how I could never compare to my younger brother, and how the jealousy rises in my chest just at the thought of it. I'm not a fool; I know why my father insisted on Altair being showered with all the ceremonies and honours that are customary for the Malfoy heir. I am painfully aware of why I didn't get any of it. After all, he showed signs of having magic within days of being born.

And all the while I am a filthy Squib. Mum was very patient with me, but I knew a lot of the things she did were secretly laced with her desire to somehow 'jumpstart' my magic. She failed. She failed, and Father made sure she suffered for it. Even now, when I think of those nights of screaming and shouting, I shudder. He treated her as though it were her fault that I had failed as their first born and heir.

My train of thought is broken by a tall man – who I assume is the Headmistress' assistant – walking out and asking me if I'm ready to head into her office. As ready as I'll ever be, I suppose.

"Mr Malfoy," the Headmistress says, as I sit down, with a bored expression on my face. I have been the model of perfect behaviour despite this filthy place, and I see no reason for her to have called me in. "I know you're a Squib."

The words hit me like a rock, knocking the breath out of me. '_I don't...understand. How could she have known? Is she not a Muggle?'_

I run through the names of well-known wizarding families in my head, and 'Mayhew' doesn't feature in it.

She shakes her head at my confused expression. "I'm not a witch. But my brother was a wizard, a Muggleborn. I have heard of the Malfoy name enough times to know what it means. And when I met your father, any doubts I had about your identity were erased."

I stared at her in disbelief. '_She knows? What does that mean for me?'_

"I was hoping to not have to bring it up," she continues. "But I have heard reports from all your teachers that you have been distracted and aloof since you came here. I know the way Squibs are ostracised in your community, so I can hazard a guess as to why you are not performing to your full potential."

"You can only guess, Headmistress. You will never _understand_." The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them. To my surprise, she only takes a deep breath and nods, instead of reprimanding me.

"I can't, you're right. But perhaps I can help _you_ understand why it doesn't mean as much as you think it does."

I laugh bitterly. "As much as I think it does? Do you know what it is like to live every day in the shadow of your younger brother simply because he was born with magic? Do you know what it is to have a father to whom emerald and silver mean more than his own son? Do you know what it is like to feel so jealous that even blood rituals don't seem like a bad idea?" I am holding back tears now, but I hope she doesn't notice.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," she begins again, and I resist a snort at her attempts. "If you will let me help you, I could try, Draco."

I sigh exasperatedly, but she is already standing up and walking. I follow her out of the room, wondering what fresh hell this place has left to offer.

* * *

_Dear Father,_

_I know you weren't expecting to hear from me so soon after our previous correspondence, but I felt this was important. Hopefully this will reach you before your birthday, for I have enclosed your gift with this letter._

_Happy birthday! My apologies for not being home, but I hope you have a great time nonetheless. _

_I will not regale you with stories of how this was made, or why I chose this particular design and colour for the top of the box. You know the importance of the Slytherin colours: emerald green and silver, and of the Malfoy family crest far better than I do._

_I only hope you will realise that this is my attempt at being who I am meant to be. Miss Mayhew says that 'Sometimes even the wrong train can take us to the right station,' and perhaps that is what this was. Perhaps I was never meant to be on the Hogwarts Express. _

_I fit in here, Father. I finally belong._

_And while I know you are still upset that I cannot wear the emerald and silver Hogwarts tie like you have always wanted, I think I rather like the blue and white of my school uniform. I know that you are upset that I will no longer strive to activate my magic and be the ideal Malfoy heir, because I am no longer as jealous of Altair as I used to be (although I will not pretend that it does not still hurt). But perhaps I can be a better person and a better son for it._

_I hope you will be happy for me, Father. I hope you will be happy for yourself, too. I look forward to your reply._

_Your loving son,_

_Draco Malfoy_

* * *

I look at the small, thin sheet of paper that came in a non-descript envelope in the post today. It is...It is most certainly not the reply I was hoping for. It is not even a full sheet from my father's usually-extravagant stationery, and I try to suppress the tears rising up in my eyes.

It doesn't say much. My father has always been reticent, so I didn't expect him to say all that much. What I also didn't expect, however, are the harsh words that make me feel like I'm suffocating.

_Disgusting._

_Disgrace._

_Disowned._

I have just been told I no longer have a father. Or a mother. Or a home.

My knees buckle, and I finally let out the sob I've been holding in for far too long.


End file.
